The next day an elderly priest approached the door of the same house. His hair was grey, his shoulders bent, his face was furrowed with those benign lines which tell that the pain which has graven them is that sympathy which accepts as its own the sorrows of others. Father M'Leod had come far because he had a word to say, a word of pity and of sympathy, which he hoped might yet touch an impenitent heart, a word that he felt was due from the Church he represented to this wandering soul, whether repentance should be the result or not.
When he rang the bell it was not the young girl but her mother who answered the door; her face, which spoke of ordinary comfort and good cheer, bore marks of recent tears.
'Do you know,' asked the Father curiously, 'what statement it was that your mother communicated to my friend who was here yesterday?'
'No, sir, I do not.'
'Your mother was yesterday in her usual health and sound mind?' he interrogated gently.
'She was indeed, sir,' and she wiped a tear.
'I would like to see your mother,' persisted he.
'She had a stroke in the night, sir; she's lying easy now, but she knows no one, and the doctor says she'll never hear or see or speak again.'
The old man sighed deeply.
'If I may make so bold, sir, will you tell me what business it was my mother had with the young man yesterday or with yourself?'